


it's only simple.

by Sam (iStuhler)



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 17:48:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16858561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iStuhler/pseuds/Sam
Summary: The cat eyes, so much like his sister’s. The long red hair, the same color as his own, the same length as his mother’s… oh Christ.It’s her.(in other words, the reunion, from Jamie's point of view.)





	it's only simple.

He may just _kill_ Fergus, son or not. As much as Jamie loves his son, the fact remains that Fergus has always had a penchant for getting into trouble. As a lad it was easier to deal with, being that Jamie could normally scoop him up and hold him, limbs flailing, away from whatever obstacle it was that Fergus had planned to take down using blunt force or his sharp tongue. But as Fergus has grown, it’s become impossible to do so. As an adult, Fergus has to mind himself, though Jamie finds himself more often than not minding it _for_ him.

Which is why he’s in a tavern in Cross Creek, drinking beer. For the millionth time he wishes it was a glass of whisky, but any _good_ alcohol is few and far between in America. He has his distillery up on the Ridge, but that’s much too far for him to obtain a glass now, so he’s got to settle for what the landlord has to offer here.

There’s some casual conversation, but not much — Jamie’s much too tired for that — and once he finishes his tankard, he asks for another and heads out the back to relieve himself. His mind is set on the trial, thinking about just what he’s going to say, about his plans that he’d hatched earlier, on his ride to Cross Creek, and so when he drops the kilt to fall back around his legs and turns, he is very much _not_ expecting to see someone standing in front of him.

A lad, a young lad — younger than Fergus. What they want of him he doesn’t know, and is about to open his mouth to speak when he realizes that he’d been mistaken. Not a lad. A _lass_ , wearing breeks and a tight shirt and _Christ_ he thought that Claire with her modern thinking would be the only woman he’d see in the getup. Apparently not.

“What d’ye want here, lassie?” He steps forward, away from the tree, eyes taking her in. Her hair nearly mirrors his own, a shade he hasn’t seen since Scotland — his heart suddenly lurches, yearning hardly for Lallybroch, for his family, for the life he’d used to lead — but it flies back into his chest with a nearly audible snap. No. He’s better here, no longer a wanted man, no longer a criminal, with the love of his life and his family and a place to call his own. He’s happier here.

_“You.”_

He’s _definitely_ not expecting that, and he blinks, owl-like, before his eyes narrow as he smiles. No, a woman’s body has not tempted him since Claire had come back to him.

“Sorry, lass — I’m a marrit man.”

As he shifts, side-stepping, she reaches out her hand as if to touch him, but her fingers stop just shy of his shirt sleeve. He pauses, looking down at them for a moment, and his lips tighten at the corners.

“No,” he says with a shake of his head, the look in his eyes turning to something halfway between humor and pity— “I meant it. I’ve a wife at home, and home’s not far—“

But then he sees her clothes, tattered at the edges and dirty, and the humor fades from his gaze. Christ, does she have a place to wash? A place to live? The look in her eyes is hungry, the corners of them pinched, as if she hasn’t had much to eat. He moves to dig into his sporran —

“Och— will ye be starved then, lass? I’ve money, if you must eat…”

_“Are you… you’re Jamie Fraser, aren’t you?"_

She knows him. This throws him, and his gaze sharpens on hers. Christ — is she the daughter of someone he knows? Or… has someone sent her?

“I am…” he says slowly, face wary as he turns to look towards the tavern. He’s not sure what he expected — perhaps there would be someone standing there, watching to see… but the door is empty. “Who asks? Have you a message for me, lass?”

And then the words she speaks nearly shatter him. _“My name is Brianna. I’m your daughter. Brianna.”_

He feels as if he’s going to faint, mind absurdly flashing to when he’d seen Claire for the first time in twenty years. This is similar to that, though he’d _never_ in his entire life thought he would see his daughter in front of him. And the similarities suddenly click into place as if they’d been like that the entire time. The cat eyes, so much like his sister’s. The long red hair, the same color as his own, the same length as his mother’s… _oh Christ_.

It’s _her_.

After what feels like an hour, though it must be only a few moments, he speaks again, voice coming out in a croak as if someone’s got their hand around his throat, gripping tightly. “It is you, Brianna?”

_“It’s me. Can’t you tell?”_

“Aye. Aye, I can.” He thinks he might cry, his fingers skimming over the skin of her face, running through her hair… things he _never_ thought he’d do, things he’d only _dreamed_ of. “I hadna thought of you as grown. I saw the pictures, but still — I had ye in my mind somehow as a wee bairn always— as my babe. I never expected…”

He never thought he’d see her. Only in his dreams, he’d seen her as a wee lass, in his arms as she sleeps, snuggling close to his chest. As a little girl with long red hair, sitting on his knee as he reads her a story late into the night, in front of the fire. But here she is, standing grown in front of him, and when he takes her into his arms with tears streaming down her cheeks, he can’t help but duck his head and inhale slowly, breathing her in.

_His daughter_.

She struggles, trying to figure out what to call him, and his lips curl in a small smile. “You can… call me Da. If ye want to, I mean.”

_“Da. Is that Gaelic?”_

“No. It’s only… simple.”

Her arms around him again, and he shuts his eyes, feeling his heart thud in his chest like someone pounding on a war drum. As they stand there, the pounding slows, til it’s steady and centered.

A piece of him that had been missing for so long falls into place, and the world around them is still.

**Author's Note:**

> please note: 
> 
> this was a prompt to write the reunion from the opposite point of view, and so i referenced the text in order to make it as accurate as possible.
> 
> most dialogue is directly quoted from Drums of Autumn, if not slightly reworded to make it flow better with the fic. i do not claim any of the spoken dialogue as my own.


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